


Vindication

by jillyfae



Series: we might need a bigger swear jar [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Epilogue, F/M, N7 Day, Romance, and Miranda Saves the Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: Fairy tales and hospital beds, bad dreams, happy endings, and new beginnings. (Also Miranda is kind of terrifying, but in a good way.)





	

It's a damn stupid book. Heavy, too. Goofy pictures, ridiculous stories, all wide eyed girlies and brats with more shoulders than brains who are supposed to be heroes.

But, it's an actual book, all in one piece, doesn't smell of smoke or blood, doesn't need to be plugged in or charged, so Jack reads it to him despite it all, every afternoon there's enough sun coming in the window she doesn't need to waste the power on the lights to see the words.

The monitors plugged into him every which way are enough of a drain, ain't they?

Not to mention the ones plugged into everyone else in the building.

Only good thing about everything being ruins. The hospital used to be some sort of office building, and doesn't actually smell like a medbay, not yet, not really. It’s in the air, but not in the walls or the floors. Easier to stay for a few hours and keep him company, like that.

Not so many memories.

Hard enough worrying about the future, without the past leaking in too.

Or not worrying. She's gotten pretty good at just dealing with each day.

She thinks he'd be proud of that.

Not that she needs Shepard to be proud of her.

But it was a nice feeling when she had it.

She refuses to imagine the possibility she won't have it again.

_You're mine. Don't you forget it._

His insides had gotten practically blended, but his armor held together well enough he hadn't needed any skin grafts, so he still had the tattoo she'd given him, still had lines to mark the memory of his skin beneath her hands.

Not that either of them need the reminder.

But it helps, while she waits, to know it's still there, beneath the thin rough cloth of his hospital gown. It helps, to believe he can hear her as she slowly works her way down each page, the ever-present haze of dusty air making her cough, even here, past every filter the staff could manage to set up for the building.

'Sides, she'd never heard most of the stories before. Seen a couple of the vids, but never all the way through, not properly.

Most of them are kind of stupid, but she likes it when they push the witch in the oven.

And the Beast has a damn fine set of teeth.

_Bet he's got a good growl._

The picture's eyes remind her of Shepard, dark and still, and sometimes she has to stop and cover it with her hand, and swallow, and breathe, before she can keep reading.

It isn't fear, not quite, and it isn't anger, for once, but it's just as deep, just as painful.

She isn't sure if it's closer to sorrow, or hope.

Isn't sure which would be worse.

 

* * *

 

Thinks it'll be better when he wakes up, and at first it is, easing something in her chest, something in each breath, something in the grip of her fingers around the paper, even when he's still lying there, too thin, too pale.

Still not _safe_ to think about anything further ahead than the next turning of the page.

Just in case.

But she feels it, even so, a weight lifted from each heartbeat.

_Hope._

He asks her to keep reading the book, even after he's awake.

"You realize this is for children? We ain't neither of us kids, Shepard."

"Never were." His mouth smiles, but his throat moves as he swallows, and the shadows in his eyes are too dark, too deep. "Think it might be nice, to imagine it. Just for a little while."

"Not gonna be more than a little while. Ain't much book left."

He sighs, and he closes his eyes, but it's different this time, proper restful, a slight twitch of fingers or shoulders or toes, a soft huff of breath that is almost a laugh, and she pretends to grumble as she opens the book again.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, he's just as startled to see the book as he was the first time. Asks her to let him see, his fingers almost trembling as they trail across the pictures, his eyes widening and narrowing in turns as he works at focusing them.

It's a different sort of fear than she's known before, not for herself, not for her kids, not even for him, not really, but for the future, a future she never realized she was looking for, and now it's trembling, fading, a twisty mirage in the driest of deserts; maybe he won't remember her long enough to stay with her in that future, even if he heals up in body and soul.

Maybe he won't _want_ to remember.

Maybe she'll have to let him _go,_ rather than holding onto her claim, rather than holding him to someone he doesn't remember, _can't_ remember ... someone he.

Someone he doesn't need.

She keeps her voice steady when he asks her if she'll keep reading it for him, and he closes his eyes, and it looks restful again, but she knows better now.

 

* * *

 

She reads it to him again, and again.

Sometimes he lets her read whatever's next, but sometimes he asks for a certain story.

Always the same one, and she's never sure if it's because he forgot she read it already, or if it really is his favorite. Sometimes he remembers the book when he wakes up now.

Sometimes he doesn't.

Sometimes he tries to pretend he's fine, even when he's clearly disoriented by everything around him.

Stupid man.

Like hiding ever worked for anyone.

She should know. She was really good at it for awhile.

But sometimes you need the quiet.

She knows that too.

So she lets him.

For now.

 

* * *

 

He asks for _Beauty and the Beast._

"This is a stupid fucking story." She's turning to the right page even as she says it.

"I like listening to you read it."

"But it's like his fault he got cursed, and someone else has to save him?" She shakes her head, fingers spread flat as she smooths the pages, tries not to smile at those dark, dark eyes. "Fuck that."

"He had to let someone else in, not just be rescued." He coughs, shifts beneath his sheet. "That's brave, I think."

"Lazy, more like." She leans forward, pulls the blanket over him straight. "He's still just hiding in his damn castle and letting someone else do all the work."

"Agree to disagree?"

"No."

Shepard laughs, soft and uneven, but a laugh all the same, and she feels the echo of it against her chest.

"Beast's an idiot. Sulks at home, lets Beauty do all the work. And neither of them ever go after the damn evil fairy who cursed him in the first place!"

"Huh." Shepard shakes his head, but he's still smiling. "You're right. Never thought of that. Guess that means we should make our own version?"

"Where they don't let the bitch get away with it?"

"Exactly." His eyes close, his face relaxing too much to hold the smile, though he still looks almost soft. "Can't let the bad guys win?"

"You never have, Shepard."

"Neither have you, Jack."

She snorts, and shakes her head, and bends over the book again, though she knows it well enough by now to not need to see the words.

She likes to look at them anyway, clear and steady and even, surrounding the Beast and his dark eyes.

 

* * *

 

The doctors are letting his hair grow out, black and thick and straight, dark against his skin, dark against his pillow.

He scowls when he runs a hand through it, and it makes him look even more like the Beast in the book. She wants to cry, but she usually laughs instead, rough and loud.

"Beauty reading Beauty." His smile flashes through his eyes, and that hurts too, sharper than the worry, fading quickly, and she rolls her eyes at him to hide it.

"I ain't no fucking princess, Shepard."

"Neither was Beauty."

"Is at the end, isn't she? Marries her Prince, and all that."

There's a tremor in the air, and he's too still, and her throat burns.

"Jack," he whispers, and his hand is turning, trying to lift towards her, and she coughs, and turns the page, and pretends she doesn't see.

He lets her finish the story, and when she closes it he smiles, a rough twist that is everything but happy. "You've certainly got sharp enough claws to be the Beast, don't you?"

"As long as you know it." She tries to laugh, though it's too sharp and thin. "That makes you Beauty then, don't it?"

His eyes close, and he's too still, and his smile softens, even if it's still sad when he opens his eyes again. "As long as I'm your Beauty."

She catches his hand when it lifts, and this time it's her eyes that burn, as she nods, and can't quite manage to say any of the words that try to catch in her throat.

 

* * *

 

He can't remember anything since the last assault after they landed in London.

Whatever it is he does remember, it makes his eyes darker than she's ever seen, and his voice is too high as he refuses to talk about it.

Refuses to talk about the fact he doesn't remember anything else.

Refuses to listen, that it's happened before.

Sometimes he knows it's happening, has happened, will happen again, but always his lips thin and he shakes his head and the silence is too thick to break.

She sits next to him, perched on the edge of his bed, his soldier, his shield.

He grips her hand tighter, fingers trembling as he shakes his head every time she moves, completely ignoring the doctors slipping in and out, testing and re-testing and whispering to each other.

The fear is back, sharp and twisting in her gut, and she hates it, _hates everyone_ , hates herself, most of all, because she's afraid for herself, even more than she's afraid for him.

She doesn't know how to _do_ this.

Doesn't know how to help.

So she just sits, there, and holds his hand, and when he finally goes to sleep that night, she shakes her fingers loose, and sits in her chair, and reads him the story again.

And again, 'til her voice drops and rasps and her tongue feels too big and her lips don't seem to move right anymore.

The Beast has to let Beauty go.

She doesn't know _how._

She wants to grip him tighter, drag him back to health, drag him along by her side until ...

Well.

Just until she doesn't want to anymore, which is round about when hell freezes over and whatever is left of old Cerberus cells starts knitting sweaters that are actually just sweaters and not secretly mutant straight-jackets that will strangle you in your sleep, or something.

She thinks perhaps she needs some sleep, herself, but instead she just waits, listening to him breathe, to the quiet hum of the monitors, watching the window until it starts to turn grey and pale with the dawn.

 

* * *

 

"I'm a terrible Beast," she tells him after breakfast, reconstituted everything with some fresh basil from someone's rooftop garden on top. Only she knows it's not true. She's just like the Beast at his worst, waiting, wallowing, hoping for someone else to break the curse and rescue them even as she's too afraid to ask for help. "Claws be damned."

"Guess you're stuck being Beauty. Beautiful." He smiles, a pale imitation of his usual grin, but it's nice to see.

"That's a stupid reason to be part of a story. Pretty."

"She's not just pretty." Shepard sounded almost offended, a snort of air escaping after the words. "She risks sacrificing herself to protect the people she cares about, but even then, she doesn't give up. Doesn't let fear stop her from trying to live. And it's her love that saves him."

There's a shine to his eyes as he looks at her, and she can tell he's not talking about the story.

Possibly never was.

"I can't save anyone, Shepard."

_Not even you. Maybe especially not you._

Her chair scrapes the floor, thuds against the wall behind her, and she ought to go, she wants to go, she never ever wants to leave again.

"Jack," his voice breaks, and her eyes close, and she hates crying, hates it, _hates it,_ as her eyes burn and her chest aches with all the things she can't let free _,_ but Shepard's not supposed to sound like that, not because of her. "You've already saved me. You don't have to stay if you don't want -"

"If I?" She stands at last, snarls, wants to sing with the heat in her chest, the shine she can feel down her spine. "I tattooed your damn stupid ass so if you got lost they'd bring you back to me."

"Then, please." Her eyes close, his voice drops, and she opens them again to see him staring at her. "Stay."

"Only if you do."

He blinks.

He blinks again, and she's half-tempted to grin. Speechless Shepard doesn't happen very often. Half-tempted to let the heat in her eyes overflow into tears, because he clearly doesn't know what she means, and he's usually so much more aware than that.

She doesn't know if he really _can't_ see, or if he just doesn't want to.

Not sure she should make him figure out which.

Not sure if he needs the rest, just for a little while, or if it's already been too long, if he needs to move, needs to see.

Not sure he'll ever get out of that bed, if he doesn't start now.

"I'm not gonna leave, unless someone throws me out." His eyebrows ease, almost a smile as she talks, though his eyes are still too wide and open. "And if it's not you, I'll just come back again."

He grins, and she sighs.

"I'll always guard your back, but you have to save yourself." She leans forward, kisses his cheek. "You taught me that."

She turns and leaves, though the knot between her shoulder blades aches, and her neck cracks as her head turns, and the skin down her spine twitches, and when she makes it down the hall, out of sight, too far to worry about him noticing the hitch in the sound of her footsteps, she stops, leans against the wall, lets her eyes close and her hands clench.

She's sure she's wrong.

It can't be right to leave.

He never left her, no matter how hard she shoved, and clawed, and swore. But. He's barely eating, sleeping too much, even for a med patient. Won't talk to the doctors, _really_ won't talk to the therapists, physical or mental. Barely even talks to _her_ , minus arguing about the damn stupid story they've both got memorized.

It can't be right to let him hide.

Can it?

She doesn't know what she's doing.

But she doesn't know what else to do.

 

* * *

 

She refuses to think too much about the message, when she finally gets it to work, refuses to think about the way hope and relief and fear poke at each other, sharp and brittle, caught between her ribs.

_"I don't know how he convinced you not to come, but he was wrong."_

Nothing else to do but wait.

She can't afford to get drunk, afterwards. If Shepard wakes up in a fog again, he'll need her sober.

She stays at the comm center all afternoon though, hunting down her kids, checking in, reminding them to watch their sixes.

To watch out for each other.

No one needs to fight alone.

Odd, how hard that one is to remember.

Even for them, who have had each other for longer than she ever had anyone, before the _Normandy._

She stops before she starts feeling weepy, because that's just _fucking embarrassing,_ sniffling in the middle of the comm center when she's getting good news, for once, everyone checking in, everyone busy, but safe.

Or as safe as it gets, nowadays.

Safer even, she thinks, than whatever's going on in Shepard's head.

 

* * *

 

It is worse than she'd imagined, and she is damn good at imagining the worst, to be the one greeting the shuttle, to meet The Cheerleader's eyes, and be forced to admit to herself that there's no glint of vindication or anger in them, that they are, perhaps, not actually hiding anything even sort-of evil.

That Miranda's smile is tired, and sad, and true.

That maybe asking for help wasn't a stupid fucking move.

Maybe, in fact, it _usually isn't._

Still doesn't mean she has to like it.

"Welcome to the hottest new vacation spot in the galaxy," Jack offers, as she snags Miranda's bag and steps backwards.

Miranda's mouth twitches, and Jack is not precisely sure when she realized Miranda had a sense of humor, but it's surprisingly comforting watching her try to hide it. She turns and starts walking back towards the 'car she "commandeered" to pick Miranda up.

"Take me to him." Miranda's voice is cool and poised, no hint of exhaustion, or that flash of an almost smile.

Jack grunts as she switches the bag between hands. "For fuck's sake, I know how many transfers it takes to get anywhere, I am not taking you to anything that requires brain power or eye-strain until you eat and sleep and shower. Not necessarily in that order." She's taken a few more steps before she realizes she can't hear the distinctive tap of Miranda's heels, and she sighs as she turns around. "What?"

Miranda tilts her head, but doesn't answer. Her eyes narrow, just a little, just barely enough to notice, and Jack rolls her eyes, tempted to drop the bag and leave the idiot standing in the middle of the square they'd turned into a haphazard transfer point for those people still trying to travel, still trying to pick up and organize and catalog and repair.

People like Shepard.

And Miranda.

Who finally nods, and steps forward again.

"Thank you, Jack, that would be nice."

"Screw nice, rather have you your usual sharp edged self doing the work, right? Could've let the usual fuck-wits keep at it otherwise."

Jack doesn't think she's ever heard Miranda laugh before, but she can't help a half-a-smile of her own at the sound, clear and bright despite London's perpetual dust and fog.

Maybe this will work out.

She's getting a remarkably long list of maybe's in her head.

She's vaguely surprised by how comforting they are.

 

* * *

 

Shepard's awake when Jack gets back to his room.

She considers, briefly, not telling him where she went or why, because that's a damn awkward conversation just waiting to happen, and also he doesn't seem ready to admit to all the weird shit his brain's been doing, and sometimes you gotta let a person lie to their own damn self 'til they're ready to stop ...

But actively lying to him is fucking stupid. That never makes anything better.

"Miranda'll be here in the morning."

His face does a thing she's never seen before, twisted and awkward and confused, complete and utter surprise brightening his eyes, and she starts to _giggle._

His eyes just get wider, as she's pretty sure they've neither of them heard her giggle before, but that just makes it worse, more and more and her eyes are tearing and it's hard to breathe but his _face, dear fucking god,_ his face is priceless.

The look on the orderly's face bringing dinner is almost as good, and Jack's laughing so hard her sides ache, and she curls over in her chair, desperate not to look at anyone 'til she remembers how her lungs work without gasping.

She's almost got it, when she hears the swallowed cough from Shepard, and meets his eyes, and she starts all over again, only this time he joins in, and they're _doomed,_ she might never be able to breathe again.

The orderly snorts, and puts down her tray, and slides back out of the room, a squeak as the sole of her shoe twists on the tile, and a soft whisper of a quickly smothered giggle before her footsteps fade down the hallway, and their own tangled gasps of laughter eventually fade too, a few last snorts or snickers or coughs as the low-level hum of the other rooms, patients and nurses and doctors and sensors, fills the air around them.

She sighs, and leans back in her chair with a thud, eyes closed as she listens to the familiar faint hum of the arm of Shepard's table as he pulls it closer so he can start poking at his food.

"So." Shepard's voice is quiet, barely louder than the tap of his plastic fork against his plastic tray. "You. Called. Miranda?"

Jack opens her eyes, follows the lines of the tiles in the ceilings. Doesn't move. "Not a single one of your doctors seem to have ever heard of her. How'd that happen, sweet cheeks?"

The sound he makes is probably more choking than snorting, but he's still breathing, so she keeps looking up.

Starts to whistle, even, some old song Joker used to always pick up on the radio feeds bouncing across the galaxy.

"Hell." Shepard sighs, and she slowly lets her whistle fade. "Thank you, Jack."

"'Course." She finally looks at him, and there they are, the Beast's eyes, dark and sad and old. "Shouldn'ta had to, Ward."

She can see him swallow, can see the shadow in his eyes shift, just a little. No one uses his first name much. Maybe it'll work, where reason doesn't.

He nods, the barest shift of his chin down, and up. "Maybe that's why we're such a good fit. Do the shit no one else will, whether it's our job or not."

She can't help but smile at that, though it hurts, memory of his blood on her hands too many times, all 'cause he wouldn't ever say _no_. "Maybe we should cut back on that a little. Start a garden, or something? Want some buttercups?"

"Ow," his hand pushes against his side, his eyes light and his voice wavering, "it hurts to start laughing again."

"Hurt worse if you try and hide anything from Miranda like you did these fuckwits."

His face goes still and pale, jaw firm enough to make it look like he'd never had an expression ever cross it at all, not once in thirty-some years. "I know."

"Good." She leans forward, snags half a buttered roll of his tray and shoves it in her mouth.

"Hey!" His face moves again, no longer granite, and she grins as much as she can with chipmunk cheeks to hide the burn of relief in her chest. "That's the best part!"

"Shouldeatnwhiluhadt'chns." Her mouth's still too full for proper words, but he gets it. And flips his middle finger at her as he protectively covers the other half of his roll with his left hand. She swallows, too much, too hard, and grins. "Soon as you get out of that bed, promise."

He blinks, and then his eyes are dark again, in an entirely different way than before, in quite her favorite way, and her grin softens as her skin warms, and she blows him a kiss just to hear the half a growl in his breath, just to watch him shake his head and let his lips curve, half a smile that finally eases the knot between her shoulder blades. "Damn, you're a harsh taskmaster Jack."

"Why you love me, isn't it?"

His smile widens, softens, and he sighs again, though it's a much easier sound than previously. "Probably part of it, yeah."

"Love you too, Shepard. Even when you're kind-of an asshole."

He rolls his eyes, and picks up his fork, and finally puts some food in his damn mouth where it belongs.

 

* * *

 

"You know, Shepard." Jack tilts her head close to his, waits 'til his eyes move from the window beside the door, 'til he stops trying to catch some of whatever Miranda's saying to the doc on call that's making his skin turn a truly remarkable shade of greenish-yellow. "If she's the one who comes back when we call, and saves your life, and gets you out of the damn bed, pretty sure that means _Miranda_ is Beauty."

"Possible." Shepard nods, but she can tell more is coming from the way he's glancing sideways at her. "Or she's the evil witch, who's decided to come back and fix her spell."

Jack tries to swallow what would have been a much-too-loud shout of laughter, and Shepard hits her on the back as she coughs. "Fuck, should I see if I can find her one of those pointy black hats?"

"Maybe a kitten, instead." His voice goes soft as his head settles back against his pillow. "She looks like she could use the company."

"She'd be a terrible evil witch, wouldn't she." Jack sighs. It was easier when Miranda was evil. Better that she's not. "Guess we're back to Beauty."

"Nope." Shepard shakes his head. "No one else is my Beauty _or_ my Beast but you."

"Sappy bastard." She grunts, and ducks her head, and pretends she isn't smiling. "How can you say things like that with a straight face?"

"Because I believe 'em." She sees the sheet slide, and reaches out so his shifting fingers can find hers. "Believe in you."

"Believe you're an idiot."

"Maybe." His fingers squeeze, just a little. "But I'm your idiot."

"Damn straight." She squeezes back. "Glad you figured that out."

"Never in question." The smile is in his voice, his hand warm in hers, and she's surprisingly ... content, considering.

"Never?" She's still smiling too. They're both a couple of damn saps.

"Not since the first time I saw you."

"Trying to kill you 'cause of your ship?"

He coughs, ragged laughter caught in his chest, and shakes his head. "Nah, I was in the overlook when you broke free. Took out that mech with one hit." He sighs, as dramatic as any of the pictures in the book. "Beautiful."

She rolls her eyes, but is sort of afraid she might be blushing. "Kinda fucked up definition of beauty there."

"Not at all. Willing to do whatever it took for freedom. What could be more beautiful?"

"Maybe you should listen to yourself sometimes." She shifts her weight, sits beside his legs to look back up at him, rather than being perched by his side. Makes sure she still has his hand in hers when she's done. "You're a damn smart guy, when you're not being an idiot."

He scowls, looks down at their hands, fingers paler than either of them are used to, looks up at the too-familiar tiles on the ceiling, jaw clenching too tight.

_He didn't let go._

"Nothing wrong with taking a break." She half-shrugs a shoulder, can't quite seem to get her breath to steady, her voice to work right. Can't figure out what she ought to be saying. Never knows the right thing to say. Needs to say it anyways. "Hiding ain't resting though."

His grip tightens, harder and harder 'til her fingers ache, the shift in his jaw visible enough she's surprised she can't hear his teeth grinding.

She blinks, eyes burning. Squeezes back, harder and harder 'til something gives at last, 'til his fingers loosen and his shoulders fall and his eyes open with a sigh that sounds like it came all the way from the other side of London. "Well. Shit."

She laughs, surprising herself by the sound of it. "Welcome back, shithead."

His expression shifts, more relaxed than she's seen him be since he woke up here, but worried too, a crease between heavy eyebrows. "Will you protect me from Miranda when she figures out I didn't tell the doctors _anything_?"

"Fuck, no."

He grins.

Her heart damn near stops and her breath stutters and her fingers do _something,_ she doesn't even know what, but he doesn't lose his grip on her, and he winks at her before she's figured out any-fucking-thing to say or do next.

"Glad to hear it." He tugs, and she's sprawled across his chest with her tongue in his mouth and his lips hard on hers and her hands in his hair and his on her ass and it's not 'til he stops for air, breath hot on her skin, that she realizes she can hear Miranda sighing behind them.

"Sorry?" Shepard offers, voice lifting as he looks up and over Jack's shoulder.

"No, you're not." Miranda sighs again.

"He's gonna be." Jack punches him gently in the shoulder before scrambling off the bed and into her chair, all prepared to watch Miranda give him hell. "He's been a terrible patient."

Shepard groans, and Miranda rolls her eyes, and Jack can't stop grinning.

 

* * *

 

It's late when Miranda leaves, having given Shepard the most articulate, well enunciated ass-chewing Jack has ever had the great joy to witness, the click of her heels down the hallway causing medical staff to part in front of her like, _fuck if I know, roaches when you turn the light on seems too gross._ But Miranda as the light that parts the darkness seems about right, considering.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Shepard's voice is a rumble half caught in the pillow between them, snug as they are, both tucked into his bed now the hall lights are off, the staff at the console in the middle of the wing quiet enough to help most of their patients get some sleep.

"I did way more stupid shit than not liking doctors, and you put up with me." Their hands are all tangled up again, fingers and skin and warm breath and darkness around them, and she's more comfortable than she can remember being in what feels like _years._

Even with an aluminum bed rail trying to force her spine sideways.

"Yeah, but you had good reasons."

She snorts, as her reasons were mostly just _I'm still fucking mad, you bastards,_ but decides not to argue. "Well then." She shifts, trying to get the bed rail to line up a little better, trying to get closer so he doesn't have to speak up, doesn't have to worry about his whisper going any further away than this bed, this night. "Why all the ostrich shit?"

"It showed me everyone dying." His voice is bare and empty in a way she's never heard before, a way that makes her shiver, makes her bones ache. He'd finally told her about the hologram, the choice he'd made, and how, and she wishes she'd been there to shoot the damn thing in the forehead before it fucked with her Shepard so much. "I saw ... There was so much _blood._ "

His voice breaks, and she kisses the air between them, just loud enough he'll hear.

"Future, and past, and memories of saying goodbye and visions that were half threat, half promise, all tangled up and I was so su--" He stops again, and she can feel the warmth of him in the dark, can hear the shift of thin fabric rubbing together, gown and sheets and weird itchy too short hospital blankets, until he's close enough to press his forehead to her shoulder. Her elbow aches something _awful_ at the angle, but she holds herself still, closes her eyes as she lets her chin rest against his head. "I was afraid you weren't real, that none of this was real, that if I was _fixed_ you wouldn't be here anymore, and that was worse than being broken."

"Fucking idiot." She turns her head enough to kiss his temple. "We're all still broken. Always will be. Doesn't mean shit." His breath catches, and if her shirt feels warm and damp against his face, she won't tell anyone. "I'm not goin' anywhere without you though. Should know that."

"I do."

"Good." She lets go his hands, shifts until she's on her back, his head on her shoulder, and smiles. "Do I need to tell you a bedtime story now?"

"There are other options." His palm is resting on her stomach, skin to skin, and his voice rasps, and oh, she aches in more good ways than bad, but.

She swats at his hand, listens to his breath shake as he chuckles beside her. "You're the one who almost got _poetic_ about having your _own rack_ with a _lock,_ and _someone,_ possibly a couple damn someones, are sure to walk in when the sensors in the bed go haywire."

He sighs, but if she didn't know she was right, she'd have jumped him days ago, in the hopes that'd help him feel better.

"Next time I get you to myself, I'm not letting anyone interrupt for, oh, at least a week."

"Two."

"Deal."

She's still smiling when she falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Jack keeps the book. Tucks it in with the few bits of gear they have left before they leave. It didn't take Miranda long, once she knew what to look for, to reset all the crap she'd put in him the _first_ time he died, so it'd play nice with the shit he'd gotten stuck with the _second,_ and without the tech rebooting every time it got confused it was amazing how much better his own damn brain worked, and _fucking hell he better not die a third time or Miranda'll kill us both._

After that, regular doctors can keep him running, and he actually knows what day it is, and PT happens, and she can start trying to figure out what she's going to do tomorrow, or next week, or even next month.

Next year seems a little like tempting fate, but she has some thoughts on that too.

First though, they're getting the fuck out of Dodge. She whistles, and hefts the duffel over her shoulder before stalking off to find Shepard.

"Hey there, Beauty."

Shepard looks up from the conversation he's having with some poor injured marine who barely looks old enough to shave, and the marine blinks, because Shepard may be lots of things, but no one has ever called him beautiful.

 _Except me._ Jack grins.

"Coming, Lady Beast." The marine's expression gets even more twisted and confused at Shepard's answer, and Jack fails entirely at not laughing at it.

"They're all gonna think we're fucking nuts." She pokes Shepard in the shoulder once he's close enough, lips still curved in a smile.

"Nothing wrong with being nuts." He drapes his arm over her shoulders, and they turn just enough to manage a half-march towards the exit. "Or fucking."

She snorts. "We are going to be a terrible influence on the kids Hackett wants us to train."

"Two weeks!" Shepard almost shouts as they step outside. "We have two weeks before we have to be responsible. I can say fuck as much as I want."

"Hard habit to break, Shepard." There's a bit of a sway to their steps at this point, uneven concrete beneath their boots making it hard to walk in a straight line, but neither of them are willing to let go just to even out. "Might have trouble after two weeks are up."

"Will you share your swear jar with me?"

She laughs again, can't hold it in, a bubbling sort of glee too big to hold. "Hell, yeah."

"Problem solved, then."

"Problem _fucking_ solved, you mean." She nudges him with her hip, which turns out to be just enough to _almost_ make him trip on a too-tall-curb-stone, and there's a moment of awkward hop-skip-shuffle before they can move forward again.

"We haven't gotten to the fucking yet." His whole body droops against her side, heavy enough _she_ almost trips this time.

"I know. It's damn awful, isn't it." She goes with the almost trip, and they're both staggering down the sidewalk like they're drunk, and he's almost _giggling_ beside her, a wheezing sort of breath that makes it impossible to keep a straight face of her own

"How much further?"

"Uh." She stops. Turns. Drags him back to the door they'd just stumbled past. "This one!"

Shepard stands up straight, and before she can even really miss the warmth of him across her shoulders, he's whispering "thank _god,_ " and he tilts her chin just enough to kiss her, a soft brush of his lips against her mouth, his fingers warm and solid beneath her jaw. "I love you, Jack."

"Love you too, Ward." She grins, and steps back and slaps him on the ass. "Now march, we're not behind that lockable door yet."

"Yes, ma'am."


End file.
